


Her Waters He Drinks

by ChibiStarr



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Metaphysical Sex, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiStarr/pseuds/ChibiStarr
Summary: The Witch-King never can have enough of the one who was bold enough to defy him, the one who so incredibly alive--while he is not.





	Her Waters He Drinks

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where instead of the Witch-King dying, he captures Éowyn and takes her back to Angmar to do what he wishes to her.

Angmar was a land of great extremes. Of bursting, hot clouds of gas and a sun that would struggle to pierce through the boiling haze and shine upon the black stones below, only for the temperature to plummet when night fell and for the ramparts and streets to freeze solid. The Misty Mountains loomed overhead, every day, and from their merciless crowns the coldest of winds blew to shake the spirit and bring its misery upon the land.

There was never a moment where Éowyn didn’t hate the place she found herself in, whether she was too hot and the stagnant air never received a breath of cooling wind, or the gales came howling from the mountains lashed by icy teeth to pound upon their doors like a madman. She had never seen weather like this in Rohan, and she never was prepared for it.

What she hated even more, though, and what likely went without saying was the...one (she refused to call him “man”) that embodied Angmar and its moods as if he, himself, was the land as well. Éowyn hated the Witch-King, and yet she was so deeply terrified of him that a single look from his flaming eyes could make her freeze in fear.

He always was around her, even when he was not there, because his very presence permeated the stones of his castle until Éowyn could never set foot anywhere without feeling as if the Witch-King would sprout from somewhere and she would feel his cold, hard hand upon her.

And sometimes he did. His breath was cold, colder than even the mountains and it made Éowyn shudder to feel it, and his cold hands that she could not see made her wish to scream.

Even when she did, whether in her voice or in her mind, the stones seemed to swallow her voice and her King just enjoyed her all the more in her suffering. Éowyn couldn’t breathe when he was over her, his black mantle draping all over her and dragging every bit of air from her lungs while unseen hands roams across her body, almost curious in their desire to touch everything, and there was not a single inch of her that was not eventually opened to his violation.

Stripped bare she would be under him, until she would look into his hood and see the blackness there, the empty depths of _nothing,_ and yet sheltered among that nothingness was _something,_ or else she would not feel the freezing, burning chilled touch of him as she did. The princess raged and screamed and tried to throw him off, her tears spilling from her eyes as she suffered, grew joyous, was broken and remade over and over under his harsh hands and his touch until all she could do was sob and beg for it to end—and yet dread its ending at the same time which would leave her so hollowed and scraped empty.

And yet her emotions were such a _bliss,_ such a _pleasure._

The Witch-King knew he had felt these things once, but as he drank them pouring from the _hröa_ of his woman he could hardly even comprehend them, let alone remember what it was like. But it was so, so intriguing and blissful, a fire licking along his form and stoking such dead ashes into something resembling the life he used to have.

He could touch, but his touches went ever deeper than mere bodies—how pathetic it was for mortal men to be so limited. He could taste _fire,_ he could taste her light, the scent of her passion in the air, the impression her hair pressed around his fingers, each strand carrying the memory of how he brushed it earlier and the fear that had held her quivering when he did,

Her fear was so drowning, so consuming and easy for him to get lost in the myriad of emotions it brought with it. Anger, terror, despair, pain, and yet the joy as she cried for his touch, the staggering confusion that her joy brought her, acknowledged but ignored, all washing over his form as he dipped into her well, bathing in the falls of _her._ Her _fëa_ and emotions, her body that writhed from the pleasure of the _fëa_ , all known and yet rediscovered by the Witch-King as he drank and drank to fill those empty parts of himself that could never be filled.

It was like wine that never made him drunk. Gone as soon as he was finished and briefly sated before the hunger was back stronger than before. Her golden, fiery light and flesh wrapped around his fingers, tangled in them while he played and played and twisted her more to squeeze every drop that he could feast upon from her before giving her time to rest.

Upon his bed there were burns and tears, his wraith fingers carving the marks in their fabric as they lay entwined with one another. Her screams and yet her waters staining the bed each and every time. The echoes of her pain and joy that he could feel as he traced his hands upon the stones hours later and drank the echoes that remained while she slept.

Her hair was gold, splayed about like smoke and always wild after his ministrations, but he would brush it and braid it anew. He remembered how to do that much.

To be broken and remade anew every day, like she always was.

She thought her tears were silent and he wouldn’t notice them. But he could taste them in the air.

He would indulge himself in them later, and wind his _fëa_ in with hers to let her feel how deep iron and ice could truly bite.

It would not be as skilled as his Master’s but…the Witch-King was powerful, and Angmar was _his_ domain, and his power in his domain was unequalled.

And she would delight him with her orchestra of suffering once more.


End file.
